


Boire en Suisse

by Finely Honed (jaqen_hgar)



Series: Morphology [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Drinking, Flashbacks, Hannibal likes to smell Will, Hannibal's Kitchen, M/M, Not Beta Read, Sulking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 06:15:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaqen_hgar/pseuds/Finely%20Honed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal is having a spot of trouble adjusting to the sacrifices necessary if he is to be with Will. Wine doesn't help his situation, but things begin to look up when Will stops by to discuss the recent change in their relationship. Makes more sense if you've read "That Old Familiar Feeling."</p><p>The amazing <a href="">FeoplePeel</a> made a cover for this fic!!! You should <a href="http://feoplepeel.tumblr.com/post/86972661240/boire-en-suise-by-finely-honed-part-two-of">put your eyes all over it</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boire en Suisse

Hannibal Lecter was sitting in his pristine kitchen, had been for hours, staring at the empty heart of his home. He was past tipsy and fast approaching drunk. It wasn’t his intended destination, but an empty stomach was the only thing paired with his wine this particular evening.

There was nothing to be done. No matter how he approached the problem, regardless of the generous leeway he allowed within his imagination, there was no perfect solution that allowed all of his desired outcomes to comfortably coexist.

He had an almost constant headache as of late, likely brought on by excessive clenching of the jaw. He carried tension with him wherever he went and it was becoming harder to hide from those around him. Physically, he had been unable to prevent this change from manifesting itself in the form of weight loss, causing his clothing to hang just this side of wrong. No one had been brave enough to comment on this, as of yet, but before long even an eye less critical than his own would be unable to ignore the change.

The transformation he was attempting was not going as expected. It was as if his gravitational constant had become disinterested in constancy. He would find himself buoyed by an abundance of bittersweet, unfamiliar emotion, to the point where he actually felt his chest might burst in his attempts to keep it safely bottled within. It was intoxicating, especially for one who had sat alone behind his walls for so very long, never considering such emotional heights achievable.

Yet, for every high, there was a corresponding low.  Everything seemed muted. Less than. Where once he possessed intoxicating emotion, he was suddenly left with a clawing emptiness as his mind revolted against his current reality. It was... vexing.

He absently swirled the remaining wine in his glass before bringing it to his mouth. The aroma was as it should be, but it might as well have been dishwater. Nothingness in a glass. He’d thought this bottle would be different, might help break the spell he was currently under, yet it had failed to rise to the occasion and now Hannibal had the additional unpleasant knowledge of having wasted something special. He knew he was sulking. He refused to think of himself as depressed or, worse yet, grieving, but the wine had at the very least allowed him to accept that he was indeed indulging in a sulk.

All thoughts lead back to the singular truth he was struggling to accept; there wasn't any more, and there would not be more to come. Yet, there was an infinite, ignorant abundance pressing in on him as if to mock him, begging him to fill his larders. He felt tainted by the stink of them all, as they paraded through his daily life, an endless temptation for his dark talents.

Ultimately, though, what bothered him most of all was his own inability to rise above these pervasive, unnecessary feelings. He had decided upon a course of action, had committed to it, would blaze new trails within himself, yet here he sat, sulking, rather than celebrating the first victorious steps down his new path.

Hannibal allowed himself an audible sigh and stared at his now empty wine glass, considering opening another bottle to refill it. He wasn't sure how long this consideration took place, but was brought out of his reverie by the realization that the noise he had been hearing off and on was actually the ringing of the door bell.

 

* * *

 

Will fumbled with his phone where it rested in his pocket, hesitant to call. Hannibal’s car was there, the lights were on. Was he watching from inside, waiting for Will to lose patience and walk away? Maybe a fourth ring would do it. Before he could press the buzzer, though, the door opened and he was presented with an unusual sight.

Hannibal was sans vest, tie, and jacket. The top few buttons of his shirt were undone and the sleeves were rolled up in a messy, uneven fashion. He was also barefoot, a few pieces of his hair stuck up at odd angles, and in the short period of time it ghosted across his face, the smile he wore looked unnatural.

"Good evening Will," he said quietly, accent slightly thicker than normal and the cadence all wrong.

"I woke you. I'll.. um," he gestured toward his car, as if to illustrate the ease with which he could depart. "Tomorrow. It can wait."

Hannibal seemed to think otherwise. He took hold of Will's arm and pulled him into the house, using more force than necessary, causing their chests to bump together momentarily in the doorway before turning aside to make room for Will.

"Nonsense, come in."  As he was still holding Will's arm, the other man didn't have much of a choice in the matter. Hannibal absently gave the front door a push, causing it to swing shut behind them loudly, the sound echoing vulgarly through the house.

When in Hannibal's home, Will invariably felt like a bull in a china shop. He was thankful to see his host was leading them into the kitchen. At least in there things could be easily wiped clean and he needn’t fear bumping into a side table, sending an antique crashing to its demise.

Once inside the confines of Hannibal’s kitchen, Will took in the empty bottle of wine on the counter and spotted a glass resting on the floor beside the armchair in the corner. Hannibal's tie and wristwatch had been left on the butcher’s block. Clearly, the man had not been sleeping, but drinking.

Despite his now obvious intoxication, Hannibal still managed to look graceful as he returned to his chair. If it had been anyone else, the move would have been described as flopping, yet Hannibal seemed to glide into place, even if he did assume a rather inelegant slouch once seated, legs spread wide, his bare feet pale against the dark tiles of the kitchen floor. Will wasn't sure why, but the sight made his pulse quicken and the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand to attention.

One of Hannibal’s arms was draped over the side of the chair, long fingers reaching to lazily trace the rim of the glass resting there on the floor beside him. He wondered if Hannibal was aware of how often he touched the things around him when in a room with Will. He'd yet to ascertain if this was singular to himself, or simply something Hannibal did regardless of his company.

Hannibal was watching him with an openness Will found both unnerving and empowering. It was quite a thing to hold the doctor’s full attention. He could feel the other man's gaze tracking him as he moved through the kitchen, watching as he paused to adjust Hannibal's tie on the butcher’s block, smoothing it out against the wooden surface.

There was the strangest tension in the room and Will was hesitant to break the silence. Perhaps it was the very fact that he was almost positive he’d never popped in to visit the doctor and not encountered some form of music playing in the background, be it in his home or office. The quiet coupled with the quasi-untidiness of the kitchen seemed dangerous somehow, as if Hannibal was no longer paying attention to the details. And he was a man who took delight in the details, Will had found.

Over the course of the day, after he had finally reached the conclusion that if they were to proceed, he must be the one to broach the subject, Will had played out scenarios in his mind of the conversation they would have. In every instance, he had counted on his friend asking, “What’s troubling you, Will?” as that would have been the normal, polite way to proceed. Now Will was left with more questions than the ones he'd come to answer and couldn't quite decide how to begin.

And then there was warmth behind him as the long length of Hannibal pressed against his back, one arm sliding around Will's waist to pull him in close, as the smaller man jerked in surprise. He hadn't heard Hannibal sneaking up on him.

"Forgive me. I'm being terribly rude," he said, nuzzling Will's hair, breath a warm puff against his ear. He was already unzipping Will's jacket as he spoke and, after carefully pulling it off of the man, tossed it onto the butcher's block, once again taking Will by the arm. "A good host does not leave his guest standing while he sits."

He guided Will over to the chair, once again assumed his sprawl, but this time pulled Will onto his lap. Will was surprised by how relieved this little maneuver left him. Clearly, whatever had been bothering Hannibal lately was not an indication of the other man's retreat to professionalism. Will had begun to think Hannibal regretted what had taken place in his office and was distancing himself on purpose.

He was very warm and smelled far better than he had any right to, considering he'd clearly been drinking for some time. Hannibal had shifted as far back in the chair as possible, making room, pulling Will against himself possessively. He made no attempt to hide the fact that he was smelling Will’s hair.

“Is that the bottle of wine I gave you?” Will attempted to shift his position, to see Hannibal’s face, which simply caused the arms encircling him to tighten.

“One and the same.”

Will considered this momentarily. “We could have shared it.”

He felt Hannibal’s short intake of breath at this, was suddenly aware of the tension in the body behind him, and found himself once again puzzled by the turn his life had taken. Sometimes he wondered if the encephalitis had caused permanent brain damage, leaving behind only a facsimile; perhaps the real Will Graham was elsewhere, stumbling through an increasingly maddening existence, unaware of what was consuming his brain.

Will certainly didn’t understand it yet, wasn’t sure he ever would. There had been a friendship building all along, that much was certain, and there had been gratitude and a shared relief when Hannibal had taken him to Dr. Sutcliffe and he had finally seen the fire burning within his brain. But at some point along the way, the exact moment perhaps lost as a side effect of his illness or drowned out by distractions (The Ripper, Abigail, Alana) he had developed an entirely different sort of attraction to the doctor.

He and Hannibal had spent quite a bit of time together as he began to feel better, and the chemistry between them only allowed itself to remain hidden from Will for so long. It was if one moment he felt comfortable in his understanding of their relationship and then in the next it was as if someone had flipped a switch somewhere inside, suddenly leaving his yearnings exposed to harsh light, no shadowy corners in which to remain hidden.

Innocently enough, their hands had brushed together while standing side by side in an elevator with Jack and the team. Without thinking, Will had clutched at Hannibal’s elegant fingers, the other man squeezing back before Will broke the contact, feeling as if he had touched a live wire. Will had watched the corner of Hannibal’s mouth twitch up almost imperceptibly as he suppressed a smile, his eyes closing ever so slightly, the way Will noticed would happen when Hannibal was savouring something particularly splendid.

After that, it was undeniable and alarming. His incredible imagination, usually taxed with visualizing acts of brutality and sussing out the motivations of others, now no longer altered by the encephalitis, betrayed him by turning his talents inward. It could not help but provide him with a multitude of vivid scenarios involving those long fingers. Yet, that evening as he finally gave in and jerked off, it was Hannibal’s inscrutability in the moment following their encounter that brought him to an excited climax.

In the following days, it was hard not to notice how closely they stood together when in each other’s company. Had they always done so? It became uncomfortably distracting to be around the doctor, Will’s brain cataloging little things to obsess over later. The way Hannibal’s stubble would begin to show toward the end of the day, the dance he did with fork and knife and the way he brought food to his mouth, the dangerous curves of his sly smiles, the dark intensity of his unblinking eyes.

Somehow, in a bizarre parody of his kiss with Alana, he had been the one to finally take action. He hadn’t gone to Hannibal’s office with the intention of seducing the man, it was just that he had become a maelstrom of emotions, all of them somehow connected to the good doctor, and when he arrived Hannibal had just looked so damned... collected. Will had wanted to know once and for all if he had imagined the way Hannibal looked at him, had hallucinated the growing sexual tension between them.

He had asked for, and received, a loss of control. As he had looked into Hannibal’s eyes, it was as if a veil was being pulled aside, revealing something so raw and dangerous that if Will had not been kissing the man at the time he might have recoiled in shock. There was some all consuming hunger within Hannibal, some apathetic anomalousness that if left unchecked would ravage anything and anyone in its path. It had been so unexpected that it was several moments before Will realized Hannibal had him against the desk and had sunk to his knees before him.

The look in Hannibal’s eyes as he had taken Will into his mouth had been just as frightening, but this time he had expected it, braced for the impact of it, and found himself reaching out with his mind, as if to reconstruct a crime. He balanced just on the precipice of some great understanding, shook with the wanting of it all, unable to reconcile the prim and proper Dr. Lecter with the man before him. Any hope of understanding was pulled from his grasp as Hannibal made him come. He found he didn’t mind.

They had fucked on Hannibal’s desk, a messy, hurried, and desperate affair, as if they would never have another chance. As if normalcy would burst through the door at any moment and tear them apart. Will had never felt such frenzy, had never wanted with such intensity, and wondered if some of what lurked behind Hannibal’s eyes had found its way into his own brain to set up residence there.

He had lost himself in the change in Hannibal’s eyes, after, had reveled in the possessiveness he saw there, but the spell was eventually broken when his phone began to ring. He had begrudgingly left Hannibal’s office, taking one last look before shutting the door behind him. That night he had been unable to sleep, had spent his time sitting with the dogs, unbelieving, overwhelmed, giddy, and terrified. He couldn’t shake the image of Hannibal in a state of disarray, standing beside the desk, long fingers tracing the edge of the wooden surface.

Since that parting, each time he sought out the man it was as if some obstacle stood between them. Perhaps it was more like a chasm. Will felt very much like he had been carefully making his way across a tenuous bridge, only to reach the middle and find it was no longer capable of supporting his weight. He wondered if there was actually a bottom, or if he would fall forever.

“I don’t regret it,” he heard himself saying almost defensively.

Hannibal shifted behind him, nuzzled the side of Will’s neck. “Nor do I,” he replied, biting Will’s throat with just the right amount of pressure to cause him to cry out in surprised pleasure. “I apologize if I’ve led you to believe otherwise.”

“Apology accepted,” Will managed to stammer. Hannibal was covering his neck with wet, sucking, distracting kisses. “But something’s wrong. Isn’t it?”

Eventually, Hannibal spoke. “Odd, to find oneself no longer alone behind the walls.”

“Sharing a fort can take some adjusting to.”

“I must warn you, I am not a man capable of half measures," Hannibal replied, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

Will found himself staring at the butcher’s block where Hannibal’s tie was peeking out from beneath Will’s own jacket. “I kind of figured that out.”

“What else have you ‘figured out,’ Will?”

The question hung dangerously in the air. “That you were right all along,” he finally answered. “I find you interesting now.”

He pulled himself free from Hannibal’s grasp, stood and turned, for once desperate to make eye contact. The kitchen felt colder without Hannibal pressed against him. “I’m sure this is an ethical disaster for you Dr. Lecter, and I can easily imagine a thousand ways this ends horribly, but...”

Hannibal was standing then, cupping Will’s face in his hands, pulling them together, kissing Will with such raw intensity that it made him shake. Dangerously, deeply, hungrily, one hand tangled in Will hair, the other at his neck, thumb pressing against the carotid pulse point. “But?” he asked, pressing his forehead against Will’s.

“I don’t want to imagine it ending,” Will whispered in return.

 

* * *

 

Hannibal watched Will as the other man slept soundly. He was no longer sulking. While he had not found any hidden, perfect solution to his dilemma, he had regained his perspective. He would ( _must_ ) come to terms with the knowledge that there would be no more killing, unless a socially acceptable opportunity presented itself, such as in the form of preventing the taking of another’s life.

He would continue to deny himself the unparalleled delight of transforming those unworthy of being called human into culinary masterpieces, even if it was a better use for them. He would abandon his plans to craft Will in his own image, and instead infuse himself with Will Graham. As a reward, he would have the opportunity to explore his fascination with Will, to better understand these intoxicating feelings, to conquer the tantalizing purity the other man possessed.

Perhaps, one day, in a moment of clarity, Will would dismantle the last of Hannibal’s walls and see the beautiful, dark truth of him. If ever one was capable of loving such an accursed and wild thing, certainly it was Will Graham. Hannibal hoped when the moment came, Will fully appreciated and understood the sacrifices that had been made in his honor.

For now, though, Hannibal would watch over Will as he dreamed within the confines of Hannibal’s bed. When Will woke, together they would return to the heart of his home and he would make them breakfast. His appetite had returned to him at last.

**Author's Note:**

> Now that this is out of my system, perhaps the next one can touch on Mischa's origins.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Boire en Suisse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5708164) by [Eridanie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eridanie/pseuds/Eridanie), [Finely Honed (jaqen_hgar)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaqen_hgar/pseuds/Finely%20Honed)




End file.
